


More Than Strength Or Passion

by the_diggler



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, Consensual Underage Sex, Derek and Stiles are Mates, First Kiss, Frottage, Hopeful Ending, Jealous Derek, M/M, Masturbation, Pining Derek, Scenting, Sexual Content, Underage Drinking, Unresolved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-30
Updated: 2016-11-30
Packaged: 2018-09-03 06:29:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8701096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_diggler/pseuds/the_diggler
Summary: Stiles is sixteen and has never been kissed, never even practised with a friend. Derek finds him wallowing in the woods and ends up being that friend. For reasons. Reasons which include a little jealousy, a lot of pining, and the fact that Stiles is Derek's mate.[Set after season 2 but references events and dialogue all the way to the end of season 5. v2 now with 25% more happy endings!]





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is mostly a Sterek retrospective with a little smut thrown in, just something I felt like doing now that we're in the show's last year :( And I do have some ideas to continue, but we'll see how everything ends on the show first.

The call of the moon is stronger for an alpha. Derek feels it like an almost tangible, physical _pull_ on his wolf _,_ the need to run and hunt and howl _singing_ through his veins. Or maybe it’s the _power_ of an alpha – the sheer strength pulsing through his body, the heightened senses, hyper-awareness – that makes Derek more attuned to the draw of gravity between him and the moon, hanging full and heavy in the clear night sky. It lights his way as he runs through the Preserve, his every muscle responding to its call as he speeds through the brush, leaping effortlessly over fallen trees and streams and ravines.  
  
Still no sign of Erica and Boyd. But he’s not ready to head back to the loft yet either. With the threat of the alpha pack looming over their heads, Peter has been hanging around more than usual. As if his very _existence_ isn’t annoying enough to begin with. Derek’s surprised Peter hasn’t just left town altogether, but he supposes waiting around for an opportunity to make a… _power_ -play, as it were, outweighs the possible danger. Ostensibly, Peter claims the reason for safety in numbers is because he’s still recuperating from being dead, and would therefore be a vulnerable point of attack for the alphas. But that doesn’t mean he isn’t still biding his time, waiting for his chance.  
  
Sometimes Derek wishes he could kill Peter again. But even Derek knows they might need all the numbers they can get.  
  
The close quarters have been getting to him, though. Isaac as well. Even more so as the full moon had approached. So Derek had left to give the teenager some space, some needed calm to anchor himself, to keep his wolf under control.  
  
Not that Derek would’ve wanted to stay indoors tonight anyway. The call of the moon is too strong. And with the power of an alpha comes greater _control_ as well, so Derek can afford to let his wolf loose a little, without worrying that it might get away from him. He feels _alive_ with it – the power thrumming through his body, and the complete mastery that comes with it, over himself and everything around him. The moon was already so full and bright the forest seems lit up like daylight, but everything he sees is all that more sharper, every little sound amplified, and every scent almost _visceral_ …  
  
Wait a minute. Derek knows that scent.  
  
He’d know it anywhere.  
  
Stiles.  
  
Suddenly, Derek’s wolf wants to rip out of his skin, with a tenfold need to run and hunt and howl, to call out to his _mate._  
  
The only thing that can rival the pull of the moon. So strong, that even buried under the scent of another teenage boy, of fear and forest and… _Laura,_ Derek had still managed to find it all those months ago, on an inhaler of all things, half-trampled by deer into a pile of leaves. And then the owner himself had appeared, bringing company with him, and… Derek had been so angry. Here was his _mate_ , a rosy-cheeked teenage boy whose scent and fate was so very deeply entangled with this freshly-bitten werewolf, as young and naïve as Derek had been when his own life had gone to hell. And Derek had _just found his sister’s body._ He had to bury her, before they, or anyone else found her. And then, he had to find her killer – a killer whose scent was all over the freshly-turned teenager’s bite as well – which meant the killer was an _alpha._  
  
Derek had told the part of himself that was howling for his mate to shut up, to focus on the new beta instead. Derek would need his help to get to the alpha and avenge Laura’s murder.  
  
Stiles hadn’t make it easy, though. Of course. From the way his scent was so enmeshed with Scott’s, Derek had expected that where one went, the other wouldn’t be far behind. But Derek _hadn’t_ expected that Stiles would be the one to come through for him, repeatedly, when Scott resisted him at every turn. Even though Stiles hadn’t been happy about it, and more than once expressed his desire to leave Derek for dead… he never did. And Derek’s wolf had preened and rumbled – _See? See how good he is? We can trust him! Make him ours!_  
  
Then the alpha turned out to be Peter, and Derek couldn’t afford to think about anything else anymore. Couldn’t even afford to grieve for what had become of his uncle – his _family_ – because Derek had to end it. Even if it meant lying to Scott so he would help Derek get it done. But when Peter was finally dead, and Derek was the alpha... the urge to bite his mate, to turn him, to _claim_ him, was so _strong_.  
  
Hell, the urge to bite _anyone_ was overwhelming at first. And Jackson had shown up before Derek could get a handle on it. But when Derek eventually regained control of himself, he knew offering Stiles the bite wouldn’t change anything. By then, he knew Stiles didn’t want him that way. Stiles was obsessed with Lydia. Even that boy Danny got more interest than Derek did. And maybe Derek and Stiles were closer to being friends _now_ , but back then they could barely even call themselves _allies_.  
  
So instead, Derek followed the call of his mate’s scent to what would become his betas. Buried under a tractor, under the smell of freshly-turned graveyard dirt – the familiar scent of Stiles’ sweat and the Beacon Hills High sports field, on Isaac. Again, under the sharp, stinging assault of the hospital – the scent of the high school gym and Stiles’ worry, all over Erica. Then, Stiles’ frustration and annoyance, found on some money in Boyd’s wallet.  
  
And even now. The moon may have called him to run, but Derek has a feeling it’s Stiles he’s been running _to_ , all along.  
  
“My Grandma, what creepy creeper skills you have,” Stiles snorts when he notices Derek watching him through the trees. “Because of course _you_ would show up while I’m drowning my sorrows. Company and the misery of love and all that crap-- Wait, that’s not how it goes,” Stiles frowns.  
  
Derek sighs, stepping out into the clearing. It’s one of the more out-of-the-way entrances to the Preserve, and Stiles has chosen to ignore the picnic table on the grass in favor of sprawling against the large rock outcropping nearby. He reeks of alcohol, the oakey burn of cheap whisky flaring sharp as he swirls a half-empty bottle in his hand. But the whole area carries the scent of it as well, as if it’s been stained into the very rock, stubbed out cigarettes burned into the ground and leftover junk food littered around in a way that tells Derek this might be a popular spot for teenage shenanigans.  
  
“Where’s Scott?” is the most obvious question.  
  
“Sorry, just little ol’ me tonight,” Stiles replies. “Scott’s got summer school tomorrow and he’s trying to be all good about it so he went to bed early,” he explains, finishing off with a petulant little pout. Derek almost arches an eyebrow at that, but that’s when he catches it, buried under the sharp sting of whisky – dried salt and muted misery. Derek’s wolf whines a little in distress, instinctively wanting to comfort his mate, to protect him. But in practice, Derek is no good at providing comfort, and he doesn’t know how to protect Stiles from a threat he can’t see.  
  
But Derek’s need to protect Stiles had only grown since the kid had trespassed his way into Derek’s life, and there’s plenty of other things Derek _can_ protect him from.  
  
“You shouldn’t be out here alone,” he finally settles on, biting back on the automatic – _it’s not safe_ – he wants to add. To say any more would only tempt Stiles’ curiosity, and he doesn’t want to tell Stiles about the alphas if he doesn’t have to. Stiles would only get himself unnecessarily involved if he knew, and Derek wants to keep him far away from that kind of danger.  
  
“Nope. No, I shouldn’t,” Stiles sighs. “So stay,” he offers easily, holding out the bottle. “Have a drink, on the house.”  
  
Derek ignores it, stepping around Stiles to sit on the rock he’s leaning against.  
  
“Yeah. No point, I guess,” Stiles says, squinting at the bottle. “Too bad. You could probably use some sorrow drownage as well,” he huffs, taking another swig.  
  
Derek doesn’t bother saying anything to that. It’s true enough. Stiles knows what happened to most of Derek’s family, and was there for what happened to the rest, but there’s still so much more he doesn’t know, and now is not the time. It may never be the time. More importantly, Derek knows if he keeps quiet long enough, Stiles will feel compelled to fill up the silence with words, and maybe then he’ll reveal why he’s out in the woods, reeking of misery and whisky.  
  
For once, though, the silence that stretches between them doesn’t feel tense or awkward at all. Stiles is still clearly unhappy about something, but his emotions seem to settle down a little bit now that he has company, so it’s actually… companionable. Nice. A welcome change from their usual adrenaline-fuelled pace. When Stiles shivers in the cool night air, Derek doesn’t think twice when he shrugs off his jacket, draping it around Stiles’ shoulders.  
  
“Thanks,” Stiles says, tentatively grateful and a somewhat confused by the gesture. “Won’t you be cold, though?” he asks.  
  
“Werewolves run a little warmer than humans do,” Derek replies.  
  
“Hah! I knew it!” Stiles exclaims, twisting around to point an accusing finger. “The leather jackets aren’t for warmth, they’re for intimidation!”  
  
Derek ducks his head, trying to hide his amused smirk at that. “Just how drunk are you?” he asks once he’s schooled his features back into a frown.  
  
“Not even close,” Stiles scoffs, taking another drink. “I’m just getting started.”  
  
“And how were you planning on getting home?”  
  
“Uh…” Stiles falters. “Damn. I hadn’t really thought about that when my designated werewolf decided to be a good student tonight.”  
  
“Huh,” Derek grunts, unimpressed.  
  
“Well I guess it’s a good thing my designated sourwolf showed up instead,” Stiles says, waving a hand in Derek’s direction, and Derek feels his eyes flaring red, his wolf surging up at the thought of being Stiles’ _anything._ “Woah there wolfman, hold the teeth,” Stiles snarks, completely unaffected by the display. “Which-- wait. Aren’t you supposed to be off training Jackson in the ways of wolfy control, or something?”  
  
Control. Yes. Derek pulls himself together at the question. “Not anymore,” he answers. Training Jackson had been surprisingly easy. Maybe it had something to do with the lifetime’s worth of practice Jackson had burying his issues under a poised, perfect façade. But more likely it was because they knew what his anchor was going into it. All Derek had to do was remind Jackson that it was Lydia, and by the end of the his first full moon, Jackson had no longer needed to be restrained.  
  
Unfortunately, though, Jackson had refused to ‘slum it’ in the train depot, so now Derek’s new loft has a huge hole in it from where Jackson ripped out the wall he’d be restrained to.  
  
The second full moon, Derek had left Jackson to his own devices (while keeping watch from a distance, of course), and Jackson had managed well enough that Derek decided he would be alright on his own for his third and last full moon in Beacon Hills.  
  
“He’s going to be fine. And he wanted to spend the time with Lydia before leaving for London.”  
  
“What?” Stiles yells, whirling around in horror. “You left him with _Lydia?_ On the _full moon?_ ” Stiles climbs to his feet to glare down at Derek. “What if she gets _hurt_ , Derek?” It’s only his _third_ full moon! I can’t believe you left him unsupervised--” Stiles chokes off with a garbled noise of frustration, as if he has too many things to say at once and they all got jammed in his throat trying get out.  
  
“Stiles,” Derek huffs, “What exactly did you want me to do, _watch_ them?”  
  
“ _Yes!_ ” Stiles snaps.  
  
Derek pointedly arches his eyebrow.  
  
“Oh. _Oh,_ ” Stiles recoils in understanding. “Right. That would be, uh… But you’re King of The Creepy!” Stiles exclaims, throwing his hands up in exasperation.  
  
“Stiles, they’ll be fine. And I imagine the danger is part of the appeal,” Derek adds, arching his other eyebrow to join the first.  
  
“Okay, that was so much more than I wanted to know,” Stiles cringes, looking nauseated. Derek can’t tell if it’s from disgust or heartbreak, or maybe a little of both. Either way, his wolf rumbles in displeasure at his mate’s unhappiness, and he almost wishes he hadn’t said anything.  
  
Stiles’ shoulders slump with a dejected sigh as he sits down on the rock next to Derek. “I just thought that if she really _knew_ how I felt about her, she would see it was more _real_ than anything Jackson could ever give her,” Stiles says, and Derek can tell from the way that bitter smell of sadness returns that _this_ is what’s been bothering Stiles all along. “But I guess I was wrong. She still chose him. She’ll always chose him,” Stiles huffs.  
  
Derek doesn’t want to be the one to say it – that maybe what Stiles felt for Lydia wasn’t as _real_ as he thought it was. Derek is all too aware of how easy it is to mistake obsession or lust for love. And it’s surprising how deep the connection between Lydia and Jackson is, given their predisposition towards the superficial. But those are probably not things Stiles wants to hear right now.  
  
“But what do I know anyway, right?” Stiles continues morosely, “I’ve never even _kissed_ anyone, let alone… well, you know,” Stiles flails a hand in the air in what Derek supposes is his version of an all-encompassing gesture. Derek doesn’t need it spelled out for him though. His wolf is already rumbling, pleased and possessive in his chest at Stiles’ admission, and Derek has to fight to keep the sound from escaping his throat.  
  
Down boy, an infuriatingly Stiles-like voice says in his head. And as the more rational part of Derek’s brain regains control, what’s left is _disbelief_. Looking at Stiles sitting there, the long line of his neck _bathed_ in moonlight as he picks up the bottle of whisky in his long, nimble fingers… lashes so long they create shadows across his flush-pink cheeks, almost touching that full, wide mouth as it closes around the lip of the bottle… Derek wants nothing _more_ than to kiss him.  
  
“I’m sixteen and I’ve never been kissed, Derek. I’m a teen rom-com cliché,” Stiles says, huffing a self-deprecating chuckle. Unfortunately, this is one time Derek knows exactly what he’s referring to, having been exposed to more than his fair share of those kind of movies back when Laura had hit her teenage years. And with the memory, another cringeworthy flashback comes to Derek, of the time he’d walked in on one of Laura’s slumber parties… Not his favorite memory of Laura, but even the most embarrassing moments are bittersweet to look back on now…  
  
“You’ve never practiced with a friend?” Derek asks, still disbelieving. Knowing Stiles’ tendency to research everything to death, it seems exactly like the kind of thing Stiles would do.  
  
“What, like Scott?” Stiles huffs. “I asked, but he was so grossed out by the idea that he threw up a little. Out of _his nose_. I would’ve been offended but it was just too hilarious. I still throw an offer his way every now and then just to see if he’ll do it again,” Stiles snickers.  
  
“What about Danny?” Derek asks. He’s not fishing. He’s not. But he remembers the smell of arousal coming off Stiles that time they’d needed Danny’s help tracking down the source of a text message. It had nearly driven Derek crazy. He’s not proud of the way he’d acted afterwards, but he’d just needed to see the back of Stiles’ neck, to make Stiles to _submit_ to him in some way. And his wolf was so on edge by then that Derek had taken it too far.  
  
“Danny. Yeah. I keep trying? But he still won't give me the time of day,” Stiles replies, frowning.  
  
Good, Derek wants to snarl. Because Stiles belongs to _him_. And if anyone’s going to be kissing Stiles it’s going to be-- Wait. Stiles had said he _still_ keeps trying. Present tense. And Derek knows how persistent Stiles can be. What if one day Danny gives in, if just to get Stiles to shut up? Or worse, Derek knows Stiles’ efforts won’t be limited to Danny. He’ll try with anyone he thinks he has a chance with, and someday, someone is going to actually _want_ to kiss Stiles, the way-- “I would.”  
  
Derek sucks in a sharp breath almost as soon as the words slip past his lips, like he can suck the words right back out of the air. But he can’t. And Stiles heard them. Though from the look on Stiles face it seems like he’s not sure he really did.  
  
“Wait, _what?_ ” Stiles finally snaps out of it. “You would _do_ that? For _me?_ ”  
  
God, yes. And so much more.  
  
“But we’re not even really friends,” Stiles says, with just enough hesitation to also make it a question.  
  
“No. We’re not,” Derek answers, more truthful that Stiles knows.  
  
Stiles swallows hard in the weighted silence that follows, his pulse quickening as Derek meets his questioning gaze head on, and his pupils dilating with… want? fear? All Derek can smell is the way Stiles’ scent is mingling with his own under his leather jacket, perfect and right – the way it _should_ be – and once his wolf gets a whiff of that it’s the _only_ thing he wants to smell. And for all that Derek’s werewolf senses allow him to hear, they can't tell him _why_ Stiles’ mouth has gone dry, or _why_ his heart is hammering in his chest. Whether it's because he understands the _real_ meaning behind Derek's words, or because of the way they suddenly seem to be much closer than they were before. So close, Derek can practically _taste_ Stiles’ scent in his mouth. And when Stiles’ gaze flicks down to Derek's lips, tongue darting out to wet his own…  
  
It's like the inevitable pull of gravity, the way their lips are drawn together, meeting soft and melting slow with every gentle press of their mouths. Maybe Stiles is too stunned to do anything but react, but he parts his lips readily when Derek licks into them, taking Derek’s tongue into his mouth and _licking back_ , returning every hot caress with his own. Derek had expected some flailing at least, had expected Stiles to overthink it, but he accepts everything Derek offers and gives back without hesitation, effortless, and easy, like they were _meant_ to kiss each other. They _are_ meant to kiss each other. Stiles is Derek’s _mate_. He was _made_ to kiss Derek. Not Lydia. Not Danny. Or _anyone_ else.  
  
When Stiles finally pulls away for air he looks more than a little dazed, lids blinking slow and heavy over dark, dilated eyes. And Derek… Derek is reeling, heart pounding in his ears and senses completely overwhelmed with scent and touch and _taste_. It’s more intense than the night they were trapped in the swimming pool together, pressed together for hours, because the smell of chlorine and Stiles’ fear had been far too sharp between them. More intense even than the time they were both paralyzed by kanima venom, and all Derek could do was lay there with Stiles draped across him, helpless to do anything but _breathe Stiles in_. Because it is another thing _entirely_ to actually _taste_ that scent on his tongue, to have it pressed directly onto his lips, licked into his mouth until his wolf clawing at his insides for _more_.  
  
“Oh my God,” Stiles finally snaps out of it, “I can't believe you just--” he blurts, suddenly cutting off as his eyes flick to Derek's lips again. “That was…” he trails off a little breathlessly, eyebrows furrowing in confusion, but his gaze still lingers on Derek's lips, like he might want more as well. But then he looks away, and Derek sees a quick flash of uncertainty and doubt on his face before his expression closes off completely. “Whatever. Everyone knows practice kisses don't count,” he mutters, starting to pull away from Derek altogether.  
  
Dereks wolf _howls_.  
  
Grabbing onto the back of Stiles’ neck, he pulls Stiles towards him again, _crushing_ their lips together once more. It counts, damn it. It counts for Derek. It should count for Stiles too. Derek’s going to _make_ it count.  
  
This time when they kiss, it’s a _fight._ It isn’t gentle or slow or soft – it’s tongues too deep, lips in teeth – hard and deep and _them_. Like every time they’ve ever argued, Stiles gives as good as he gets. Or like every time they’ve jumped into battle, Stiles dives right into the fray, more reckless than fearless, but with fierce, undeterred _intent_. And it’s with that kind of reckless intent that Stiles grabs and clutches at Derek’s shoulders, pulling Derek close as he falls back onto the flat surface of the rock they’re sitting on. Or maybe it’s the force of Derek’s kiss that pushes Stiles backwards, pressing him down onto it. Or maybe, like they always do, they end up working together, and it’s a combination of those things – pushing and pulling, pressing and falling, Stiles parting his knees and Derek slotting himself between them, limbs and tongues tangling as they sink into each other.  
  
Derek slides his hand up from the back of Stiles’ neck as they fall, cupping the back of Stiles head in protection, but also allowing Derek to hold him closer, angling his head to kiss him deeper. To Derek’s surprise, his fingers find just enough hair to curl into. Just enough to tug and pull and make Stiles gasp, mouth hanging open and wide for Derek to kiss even deeper still. But even werewolves need to breathe eventually, so he uses his newfound grip to tilt Stiles’ head to the side, forcing Stiles to expose the long, pulsing curve of his throat to Derek lips.  
  
“Your hair’s getting long,” Derek mouths mindlessly into that heady expanse of skin, licking and sucking and just _breathing_ it in.  
  
“Hey, give a guy a break,” Stiles retorts, albeit a little shakily, “It’s summer vacation, I’m allowed to be lazy about getting a haircut if I want-- _Ahhh!_ ” Stiles cuts off with a gasp as Derek growls and tugs pointedly on the soft strands in his fingers, baring even more of Stiles’ vulnerable flesh to the renewed attack of Derek’s lips. “Or I could just grow it out?” Stiles says, more than a little breathless, “Yeah, that’s totally a thing I could do,” he decides, before dissolving into incoherent babbling, curses and praise spilling from his lips, and pressed into Derek’s ear.  
  
It’s right around then that Derek also loses any ability to actually process sentences anyway – loses any higher brain functioning altogether – because his nose is _buried_ in the intoxicating flesh under Stiles’ jaw, lips _drinking_ down the taste of Stiles’ skin, and he is utterly, completely _drunk_ with it. If he thought Stiles’ scent was potent before, it’s nothing compared to what it is now, thick and heavy and _charged_ with arousal, filling his mouth and lungs until he’s practically _drowning_ in it.  
  
He doesn’t ever want to come up for air.  
  
It isn’t long before Derek feels Stiles thrusting erratically against him, the length of Stiles’ arousal burning a hot line through his jeans. He keeps his fingers tangled in Stiles’ hair, cupping the back of Stiles’ head against the rock beneath, and slides his other hand down to grip Stiles’ hip, guiding him into the rhythm of Derek’s own thrusts. Stiles’ babbling gives way to wordless moaning then, and Derek just can’t stop _kissing_ him. Can’t stop licking into Stiles mouth, can’t stop pressing his lips to the arch of Stiles’ neck, can’t stop sucking and nibbling the sensitive lobe of his ear.  
  
Stiles begins chanting his name, at first like a warning, then louder and louder, building into something fast and frantic. Until suddenly, it’s a choked off whimper, strangled with surprise and the bliss of release. And as Stiles comes in his pants, Derek _definitely_ can’t stop, spurred on by the thick, concentrated scent of _his mate_. He can’t even stop when, not long after, the dizzying euphoria in the air around them starts to turn sour with shame.  
  
Derek vaguely registers words like, “sorry,” and, “fast,” and, “embarrassing,” but he might as well be deaf for all the that the words make sense to him, because the scent of Stiles’ come – the _proof_ of his mate’s desire – has driven Derek into a frenzy, and he _won’t_ stop until every trace of that sour scent is rubbed away. Until Stiles goes pliant in his arms again, sated and relaxed, moaning and murmuring things like, “yeah, Derek,” and, “keep going,” and, “whatever you want.”  
  
Derek’s wolf wants to howl again, like a wild thing, desire clawing and ripping up his insides. Because there’s _so many things_ Derek wants. An entire lifetime’s worth of things. But to start with, he wants to tear Stiles’ clothes away, kiss and suck and mark every inch of Stiles’ skin. Wants to lick the come off the insides of Stiles’ thighs and his soft, sated flesh until it’s full and hard and heavy again. Wants to lick deeper still, deep between Stiles’ legs, until Stiles is wet and loose and _ready_ for him. And then he wants to roll Stiles over, close his mouth over the back of Stiles’ neck as he sinks into his body and claim, claim, _claim._  
  
“Woah dude, seriously, watch the teeth there. Not that I want you to stop – oh god, _please_ don’t stop – just don’t actually give me the bite ‘kay big guy? The answer’s still no.”  
  
What.  
  
Derek may have lost the ability to understand complete sentences, but he still understands the word, “no,” and it’s like being doused with a bucket of ice water, clearing his head effectively fast. Derek starts to pull away, ignoring his wolf’s whining and forcing himself to make sense of the words.  
  
“What do you mean the answer’s _still_ no?” he finally asks.  
  
“Uh, well, I wasn’t going to say yes to _Peter_. _Obviously_ ,” Stiles replies.  
  
“Peter tried to _bite_ you?” Derek yells over the sudden roaring in his ears. The thought of Peter’s teeth being anywhere near Stiles’ neck… The thought of any part of Peter, anywhere near _any_ part of Stiles’ body… It makes Derek lose control again, claws and teeth lengthening as his eyes flash red.  
  
“Well, it was more like he _offered_ to bite me?” Stiles’ amends sheepishly. But it does _nothing_ to appease Derek’s anger. In fact, it makes it worse. Because if Peter thought turning Stiles would gain Scott’s compliance, he would’ve just _done_ it. Or even if, maybe, Peter had caught Derek’s scent off the scruff of Stiles’ neck, had put two and two together and realized how to secure Derek’s long-term allegiance – he still would’ve just _done_ it.  
  
But Peter had _offered_. Like a _proposition._ Would’ve cornered Stiles and leered at him, imagining the kind of things-- that Derek was imagining just now. And that makes Derek feel like a very, very bad man.  
  
“To be honest, though, now that I know the kind of crap you guys have to go through? I don’t know if it’s worth it,” Stiles says with sigh. “It’s hard enough being a _regular_ teenager, let alone a teenage _werewolf_. And I don’t want to put my father in that kind of danger, Derek. I can’t lose him,” he says with finality. And Derek understands that. He understands that all too well. And as if that isn’t enough to get Derek to back off right then and there, the reminder that Stiles is the son of the _sheriff_ is. The _underage_ son of the sheriff nonetheless. Which is more than enough for Derek to start disentangling himself from Stiles’ limbs.  
  
“Hey, wait,” Stiles breathes, trying to pull Derek close again, “What about you?” he murmurs, using the scant space Derek’s made to reach down between them, cupping his hand against Derek’s still-straining length.  
  
“Don’t,” Derek says, even though he wants nothing more than to thrust up against that firm pressure.  
  
“What? Why not?” Stiles huffs against his ear, mouthing at the skin below it. _God_ does Derek want to stretch his neck out for him, offer up the vulnerable flesh of his throat. But it’s that impulse that makes him pull away altogether, tearing himself out of Stiles’ arms and standing up to walk away.  
  
“Huh? What? Where are you going?” Stiles jumps up off the rock, scrambling after him.  
  
“This has already gone too far,” Derek snarls, not stopping.  
  
“What do you mean _too far_?” Stiles asks, anger creeping into his voice.  
  
“You’re only sixteen, Stiles. And I’m… I’m…” Derek trails off. There’s just too many ways to finish that sentence. _Dangerous? Damaged?_ The difference in their age seems like the lesser of many evils Derek would bring into Stiles’ life. But Derek knows all too well how important it can be.  
  
“Damn it, I shouldn’t have brought up my Dad. Or Peter. Or anything at all,” Stiles mutters, and Derek finally stops, turning around.  
  
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he growls, because he needs Stiles to know that.  
  
“Then _why not_ , Derek?” Stiles asks quietly, stepping into Derek’s space again. “If we’ve already gone too far, then why not keep going?” he asks, breathless and soft. And the thing is, Derek is having trouble bringing himself to disagree. The scent of _want_ is pouring off Stiles in waves, and Derek has _waited_ for this moment, to have that directed at him. And the baying of his wolf is so loud, Derek can’t think, can’t find a reason to fight it anymore. All the power of an alpha and Derek feels completely, utterly _helpless_.  
  
“What do you need, Derek? Tell me,” Stiles murmurs against his mouth, and Derek chokes on the whimper that escapes his throat at the words. There’s just _so much_ Derek needs from him. So much more than Stiles is ready to even _consider_ yet, only just having begun to consider the idea he might _want_ Derek. And if Derek lets him in now, he’ll never be able to walk away.  
  
Which is exactly what he needs to do. Right now. For Stiles’ own good. He needs to walk away, make it clear in no uncertain terms that this is not an option. Not now, not yet. Not until Stiles is ready to handle how Derek really feels about him. Not until Stiles might be ready to feel the same way.  
  
Against his better judgement, he presses one last, chaste kiss to Stiles’ lips, then rips himself away, disappearing into the woods without a backward glance. And when Stiles’ calls after him, confused and hurt and angry, Derek just runs faster, farther, until the only thing he hears is the pounding of his own heart, the rushing of his pulse in his ears. Only then does Derek crash to a stop, throwing himself back against a tree as his hands fumble to undo his pants. He can’t resist it anymore – the scent and taste of Stiles’ arousal still thick on his tongue, stuck in his throat until he’s choking on Stiles’ name, a guttural gasp through sharp fangs and shifting bones as his wolf ripples across his skin… When Derek comes, it’s with a roar, desperate and savage, and offering no release.  
  
Derek sinks to the ground, exhausted, his wolf curling back inside himself as he tries to pull himself together. He has to make sure Stiles gets home alright. Has to get out his phone, call Isaac to make sure he does. Or go to Scott’s house, physically drag him out of bed if he has to. And then…  
  
Then he’ll just have to find a way to shut Stiles out again. Shut him down completely.  
  
Derek can find someone else. Make Stiles think he’s unavailable. He knows what he looks like, and he can be charming when he has to, anyone will do.  
  
Except how it won’t. Not really. No one else will do. Because as much as Stiles is _his,_ Derek belongs to _Stiles_ too.  
  
Then again, Derek has gotten good at pretending otherwise, these last few months. And it’s not like he’ll have to make any promises he has no intention of keeping, in order to do what he has to.  
  
But what then? What happens if Stiles buys it and moves on? If he finds someone of his own? Will Derek be able to just stand by and watch that happen?  
  
Derek feels his wolf crawling under his skin at the thought, clawing and thrashing in his chest until Derek is throwing his head back, howling desolately at the moon.  
  
He’ll just have to bear it. And if he can’t, he’ll just… keep running. Somehow, he’ll just have to find the strength to leave Beacon Hills altogether, and leave Stiles behind.  
  
At least, for a little while. Because in the end, Derek knows it won’t matter how far he runs, or how hard he tries to hide. They always seem to find each other anyway.  
  
~  
  
_One Year Later_  
  
Stiles pauses as he leans over to write his initials on the Senior Scribe shelf, eyes fixed on the initials “D. H.” written there already, and he can’t help but think - _one more year_.  
  
  
_~ fin_  
  
  
  
"Patience and time do more than strength or passion." --Jean de La Fontaine

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, this is unbeta'd so please let me know if there are any glaring errors or events I got out of order :s


End file.
